Aftermath
by endless-fever
Summary: [CSI: Miami] The aftermath of Dispo-Day.


Title: Aftermath

Author: Diane (diane@barely-floating.net)

Disclaimer: Not mine. 

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: Dispo Day  
  
Summary: The aftermath of Dispo-Day.

Author's Note: I'm not very nice to some of the characters, but I think it's all in character. This is my first CSI:Miami fic, so be kind. Thankyous to Sarah for reading this, encouraging me, and saying 'eeeeeeee' a lot at some of the parts. And, she gave me the title.

+++

He wakes up in a cold sweat. He keeps dreaming about it. The second night in a row that he wakes up unable to breathe, convinced there's a hole in his chest and not a deep purple --almost black-- bruise.

'I was involved in the Dispo-Day shoot out and all I got was this lousy bruise.'

He doesn't want to laugh. But for days, he's felt like the only option was laughing. That sick, scary laughter that raises the hair on the back of your neck. He wants to laugh to avoid crying, to avoid guilt and fear. When he manages not to think about Hollis, he thinks about the fear that he felt. He thought he was going to die. Was sure for what seemed like eternity. He doesn't like to think about how close it really was. All the guy had to do was shoot him in a head and he wouldn't be laying here in his room, sweating and sick to his stomach. 

A look at the clock tells him it's four in the morning. Sleep is over for the night, he knows that. He goes into the kitchen, just for something to do. Looks in the refrigerator, can't stomach the thought of eating anything in there. Settles on turning on the coffee pot, keep his hands busy, keep himself from thinking.

He sits on the couch while it's brewing, forgetting about it as he flips channels. Finds nothing on but Family Ties reruns on Nick at Nite. He tries to recall how much he's slept in the past two nights, and he can count the hours on one hand. His eyes itch. The television can't hold his attention. His eyes wander, find the gun cleaning kit on the coffee table.

He picks it up, holds it in his hands that have been shaking for two days now unless he concentrates on keeping them still. He fights the urge to scream, to avoid his neighbors calling the police, that's how hard he wants to scream, to just let it all out until his throat his raw. Instead he hurls the stupid 'gift' across the room. Resentment rises as he watches it bounce off the wall, break open, and it's contents spread across the floor.

He laughs, thinks the perfect Horatio Cane's gun is always clean. His chest hurts when he laughs. So he focuses his eyes on the television screen.

+++

He wakes up to the phone ringing. He doesn't know he fell asleep, sometime after when the Nick at Nite turned into cartoons again, and he was too lazy and too numb to reach for the remote. His answering machine clicks on before he realizes what woke him. 

"Hey, Tim, it's Calleigh. It's almost ten. Give a call when you get this."

He frowns, squinting against the sunlight. A cartoon that is entirely different from any cartoon he would have watched when he was younger. It's bright, too fast. It makes his head hurt. He wonders if Hollis' kids watch this crap, and shuts the television off almost as violently as he threw the stupid gift the night before.

He stares at his phone, debates calling work, knows he should. He doesn't want to talk to Calleigh, or Eric for that matter. He looks down at the phone like it will give him all the answers. Decides to call Horatio. His boss' fake concern is easier to deal with than the real concern the others have. Plus, that is the proper procedure. He has plenty of sick daus coming to him, what's taking one Friday off going to do? He did work after being shot in the chest. He stops the thoughts there. He deserves a day off, he reminds himself, pumping up his courage. He dials the number from memory. 

Horatio answers on the second ring. 

"Hey, H." He says, even to his own ears his voice doesn't sound right. "I'm sorry, I would have called earlier, I just woke up."

"It's not a problem. Slow day."

He sighs in relief, winces at the pain, wishes that the constant reminder would just go away. He tries to remind himself that a bruise is good considering the alternative. Fails somewhat short of being comforted by that. "Uh, good…" He searches for words. 

"You want today off?"

Statements disguised as questions. "Yeah. I'm exhausted." He does sound like it. Even if he's slept more in the past six hours than the past two nights combined. 

"Is everything okay?"

He rolls his eyes, always an automatic function with him. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired. It's been a long couple of days." He knows he's on the verge of uncharacteristic rambling, so he bits his lip to keep words in. He badly wants to be off the phone. 

It feels like hours before Horatio speaks. "Okay. Keep your pager around --just in case."

"All right." 

He says his good byes, and shuts off the ringer on his phone and turns off the answering machine before sitting back down on the couch to stare at the blank television.

Outside, it's a beautiful day. The sun light keeps teasing him, cutting through the shades, dancing on his coffee table, on the floor, over the plastic of the gift. 

He sits there and wonders if he can run again. Like he did when he was younger. Run and find some place nice away from reminders. It worked once. He still only goes to Syracuse once a year, at Christmas, to keep his parents happy. He thinks he's too old to run again. Doesn't think he'll be forgiven a second time.

He's almost thirty, he shouldn't be running from things. But he really doesn't want to deal with it.

He decides on a compromise, finds his helmet and pager before leaving his apartment, intent on riding his bike until his mind clears. It's the only thing that's worked in the past. Bad case, some dirt bag kills a little kid, hop on the bike and just concentrate on wind and vibration and sound and hope it all goes away...

He thinks he might run out of road before that happens this time.

+++

Not knowing how you got to a certain place is not a good sign. Being so drunk it takes you a good minute to figure out why your pants are vibrating, is another bad sign. He unclips his pager, stares at it, tries to get the numbers to stay in one spot. 

After about a minute of staring, maybe longer, his mind isn't really working right now, a hand takes the pager away from him. The hand is attached to a body. A female one. Pretty. He blinks, tries to get his eyes to focus. He doesn't remember the last time he was this drunk.

"Having trouble?" She asks. Smiles. Like the Cheshire Cat. 

He must have looked confused. He still is. The entire bar moves when he nods --keeps moving after he nods. He think he might throw up. There's an impression to make.

She reads off the numbers. He forgets the ones she started with by the time she gets to the end. 911. Something important. Someone calls 911 when they're in trouble. When they're shot in the head because some asshole didn't clean his gun. He stares at the woman. She gives him a little smile --sad looking-- puts the pager in his limp hands.

"Maybe it should wait until the morning."

He thinks that's a good idea. "I--uh--thanks." He mumbles. 

He thinks it's a bad idea to be here. He's pissed at whoever paged him. His first sick day in ages and he's being called in to work. He fights the urge to break the pager. He accidentally dropped the fucker in the toilet once, and had to listen to a lecture on properly caring for equipment.

Maybe it should have been a speech about cleaning his gun. That would have helped more.

His knuckles are white, he's gripping the pager tightly in his hand. Thinks it should hurt. He sighs, tosses back the rest of his drink before he can think better of it and slides off the stool. He might even manage a small smile towards the cat for helping him, but he's not sure. His face is kind of numb.

He's outside when another pain in the ass part of technology starts ringing. With a sigh, he looks at the call display. He should know the number, just knows it's not Horatio. That's good enough. He stands in the street, tries to figure out where he is, and answers to phone, if only to make the ringing stop.

"Hello?"

"Speed?" It's Eric. "I paged you."

"Yeah. I was having trouble…" He trails off, remembers going home after riding his bike until sunset...And leaving again...Did he take his bike? 

"...it is?" Eric finishes.

Tim blinks. "I don't..." Trails off again, can't find real interest the conversation. He doesn't have his helmet. Probably walked, if he didn't lose it somewhere. Tries to find something familiar. Fails. He feels like he did that time when he was six and didn't pay attention to his mother and got lost in the store --small, alone, scared.

"Are you listening?" 

He groans as he realizes that last bit of alcohol was a dumb idea. Or most of the first bits. Slips into an ally, throws up alcohol and coffee onto the cement. At least he was kind enough to cover the phone while he did it. For some reason, that makes him laugh. Scary laugh, he decides. 

He looks at the phone, he can hear Eric calling his name through the cell phone. He really doesn't feel like talking. Says good bye to Eric before shutting it off without waiting for him to say something back.

If it's that important, they'll find him. He doesn't really care. Let them suspend him.

+++

He lets out more of a moan than a groan when he gets to his floor. Eric is sitting against his door. There's a second before he sees him --did Delko fall sleep?-- and he thinks he has just enough time to turn around and leave. But the elevator closes behind him, and Eric looks up, startled almost.

"What the hell was that? Hanging up on me? Did you throw up?" Eric asks, pissed and concerned. Words rushing out of his mouth like he's not sure which one he wants to say first.

Tim shrugs, too many questions. Feels like he should say something. "I'm tired." Is all he gets out. Tries three times to get the key in the hole before Delko takes his keys and opens the door.

"You reek of alcohol, man."

"I'm pretty drunk." He admits. No need, no strength, to lie. It's obvious when he trips over the stupid plastic top for the gun cleaning kit. Would have smacked his head on the entertainment center if Delko didn't reach out and catch him.

Eric's hand is warm on his arm, leads him to the couch, forces him to sit down. Leaves the room, he starts to curl up on the couch. It's moving like a boat. He never liked boats. 

"You like boats." He states when Eric comes back, hands him a glass of water.

He gets a nod in response, and a confused look. He sips the water, wants something to do. 

"Is your pager working?"

"Yeah." He pulls it out, gives a bad toss to Eric who catches it anyway.

"Why didn't you call me back?"

"You called me."

"Fifteen minutes later."

It took him fifteen minutes to realize he couldn't read it? He frowns, puts the glass on the table, and curls up on the couch. Maybe if he falls asleep Delko will leave. 

"Where'd you get the gun cleaning kit?" He asks instead of leaving.

Tim wants to scream, opens one eye. "Horatio."

Surprise. "So he knew?"

"Yeah." 

He wants this conversation to stop. Delko sits on the end of the couch, so Tim has to move his feet before they get sat on. He frowns. Doesn't say anything, doesn't know what to say.

"How much did you drink?" Eric finally asks. Almost concern in his voice. Tim doesn't think he's ever been around any of his coworkers buzzed, let alone this drunk.

"Uh...I think I lost count."

"There's a good sign." 

He doesn't say anything. Doesn't have anything to say, doesn't want a response to anything he would say. He just wants to sleep. He feels Eric get off the couch.

"I'll let myself out." He says, sounding something. Tim can't figure out what. Not angry, but not happy either. Concerned? Resigned? 

"Goodbye." He mutters it with his eyes closed. Too drunk and too tired to really care about Delko's feelings.

He listens to footsteps, here's him stop at the door. "Are you on tomorrow?"

He groans. 

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Yeah."

"I'll see you tomorrow then." 

The door opens, but he doesn't leave. Almost a minute passes, Speed opens his eyes. "What?" Tries hard to sound something other than pissed off.

Eric looks at the floor. "Are you okay, Speed?" 

"I'm fine."

Eric looks at him like he's going to tell him no, he's not okay. Which is true. But he doesn't, he just looks him in the eyes for a few seconds and then closes the door behind him. 

+++

He wants to kill whoever is making that noise. Horrible, loud noise. Pounding. His door. His eyes don't want to open, but the pounding won't stop. He finally gives in, squinting against the harsh light. Doesn't know what time it is, doesn't care. He gags when he sits up, manages to not fall back down when he stands. Wants very badly for the world to end so he doesn't have to deal with this headache anymore.

"All right!" He screams, a lot louder than he would have liked. The pounding stops. He shuffles over to the door, hates himself even more than he did before he left the apartment the night before. If he could remember it.

Doesn't even look through the hole, just throws open the door, and glares at Delko who is smiling and looking impossibly bright for whatever the hell time it is. Any time, it's too bright. 

He steps aside, as Eric's smile fades, lets his coworker into the apartment. "You sleep in your clothes?" Delko asks, frowning.

He nods, realizes that it was one of the bigger mistakes he's made since waking a second later when the apartment tilts.

"You look a little green."

"Fuck off." He calls it over his shoulder, moving as fast as his body allows, and rushes into the bathroom. His body doesn't seem to care that he doesn't have anything to throw up. Just a few sips of water. 

He brushes his teeth, tries to get the taste of vomit and Jack out of his mouth. Fails with both. When he goes to the kitchen, he sees Delko's sitting at the table. A paper bag Tim didn't notice when he came in is sitting in middle of the table. McDonalds. 

"I got you an Egg McMuffin." Eric says, still too bright. Almost a little fake.

"This is what I get for hanging up on you last night, isn't it?" He asks, not exactly annoyed. 

Annoyed would be if he came over with aspirin and Tums, to make him feel better for being an idiot. When people worry about you drinking yourself into a stupor, they baby you. When they're not worried, they bring you greasy food to fuck with your sad hungover stomach. 

"Yup!" Still bright, fake cheer. The kind you get from teasing your friends. "And coffee." He adds, smiling for real now. 

Tim sits down, sips the coffee, but can't bring himself to even look in the bag at the food. The thought makes him sick again. He refuses to throw up a second time, and just sits there, staring at the table for a few minutes before he realizes his kitchen is unusually bright for a morning.

"What time is it?" He asks, trying and failing to straighten his hair with a hand.

"Almost noon."

"Why aren't you at work?"

"Because I was sent to get you. Your phone's not on. H is pissed." He says it nonchalantly, taking a bite of his food.

"Oh." It's the only thing he can think to say.

"I'd call him. It's another slow day, but we're supposed to show up on the slow days too."

"I know." He says, but doesn't move to get up.

A smile plays across Delko's face. "You don't want to call him."

"Not really."

Delko nods, finishes his food. Without waiting for him to ask, Tim pushes the bag over to him. The smile widens. 

"Go take a shower, you need one. I'll call H and tell him you're getting ready."

Speedle even manages his own smile, even though he's pretty sure it makes his headache worse. "Thanks."

"No problem. I just don't want to be there when you finally get in."

Neither does he.

+++

He's never exactly been glad to find out someone's died. Not exactly. But, he's almost glad that Eric knocks on the door five minutes into his shower and tells him to hurry, they have a case. A case means plenty of busy time without being lectured for too long. Even if he knows he deserves the lecture.

They meet Calleigh and Horatio at the scene. A relatively large house, in a not so good neighbor hood. Lots of crime tape. They find them in the master bedroom. It's a mess. Lots of blood and in middle of it all, some middle-aged, overweight guy that didn't meet a good end. Exactly what one needs to see after seeing the content of their stomachs twice in the last twelve hours. He swallows twice, and waits for orders.

They sound like requests from Horatio, but they never really are. Sometimes he even says 'lets' and it just means you do all the work while I stand around with my hands on my hips, trying to make my scrawny ass look bigger. He's almost surprised at the hostility of his thoughts, but then again, he's hung over. And still pissed, now that the aspirin he took is starting to kick in, he remembers that. 

Horatio looks up. Speedle watches Calleigh and Eric find something else of interest to look at. It is a crime scene, so he doesn't hold it against them. 

"Speed, come with me." 

There's an almost sympathetic look in Calleigh's eyes. Delko looks a little less sympathetic, and Tim does understand why, but he's too busy being pissed at Horatio to really think about anything else. He's almost worried about the anger rising in him, but he doesn't really care.

They go outside, and his headache shoots back up ten notches before he can get his sunglasses on. He wishes that for once, Miami would have a day when its not sunny. Just enough clouds to cover the sun, that would be enough. Instead, he's stuck standing there with his so-pale-he's-reflective boss, feeling like a little kid who's got caught doing something bad. Like playing with fire. From the way his throat burns, he might have last night.

If he could get himself to care, that would be a whole other thing unto itself. Instead, he cross his arms and tries hard not to look too pissed off. What comes out of Horatio's mouth is a surprise.

"You look like crap."

Tim blinks behind the sunglasses, tries to come up with something to say back. Nothing comes up, and just looking at Horatio blankly seems to be the best idea. He's too tired and hung over, and not at all in the mood to deal with this.

"I'm sorry I was late." He says, after a few moments, because he feels he should say something, just not what he wants to say, which is, 'fuck off, I quit.' 

"Two days in a row. Even if you're not planning on coming in, you should call before your shift starts."

Speedle nods, regrets it when his stomach reacts, but refuses to show how hungover he is to his boss. 

"Both your cell and your home phones were turned off. And you didn't answer my pages either, did you?"

Questions he knows the answer to, yet finds it necessary to ask them anyway. Tim's hands are balled into fists. He tells himself he has nothing to be this angry over. But he can't help it. 

"No." He admits, when he realizes Horatio really wants an answer. Feels like he's five. 'Timmy doesn't play well with the other children.'

"Why not?"

"I didn't hear the pages."

"And why were your phones off?"

Tim shrugs. "My cell battery died. I couldn't find the charger last night." He lies, doesn't feel that strained. "I shut the ringer off my home phone." He admits. 

Horatio opens his mouth to say something, but his cell phone rings. He stands there while Horatio 'yeahs' and 'okays' and even says a few 'all rights' before saying he'll be there. He hangs up the phone. 

"We're not done." He promises. Speedle rolls his eyes behind his sunglasses. These things are handier than he thought. 

"But, we've got another vic. A shooting down by the marina. Can you and Eric handle this scene?"

He nods, again not exactly happy someone's been shot, but glad to get out of this stupid conversation.

+++

"H seemed pretty angry." Delko says, from one corner of the bed room. There's lots of blood. Only in the one room, probably means he was surprised.

"Yeah." Tim agrees, doesn't feel like saying anything else. He's got the camera, because at least this way he knows when to close his eyes against the flash. Not that his headache is retreating at all.

"So, this guy had a son living here. According to the neighbors they fought a lot." Delko says, making conversation, even with his back to him, he can feel Delko's eyes on him. 

"You think he did it?"

"I dunno, would give him the element of surprise."

"Or someone came in while he was sleeping." 

Eric nods, Speedle goes out the door, into the hall, finds another room with the door closed. He opens it --the son's bedroom. Messy, clothes all over the place, dark, mini blinds on the window, of course they're closed. The closet --one of those with the little slits in the doors, Speed doesn't know what they're supposed to be called-- attracts his attention. There's a puddle coming out of it. The puddle isn't blood, it's urine. He can smell it all the way across the room. He can't understand how the cops didn't see it.

He reaches out to open the door when it is thrown open, smacking him in the face. A screaming, mass of something, flies towards him. He sees metal, throws up his arms to protect himself, even as he's tackled. Pain in his arm, then his head as he hits it against the bed frame. He finally hits the ground, the weight --the son?-- on him. Knife in the kid's hand. Even in the darkness he knows it's a knife. Against his neck, and he finds it hard to really breath. He doesn't remember his job ever sucking this much before.

"Speed?" Eric calls, still in the other room but coming closer, he can hear his footsteps.

"Who the fuck are you!?" The kid shouts, hands shaking. 

"I'm a CS- I'm a cop." He doesn't think the kid knows what a CSI is. Doesn't feel like giving a lecture. It's too hard to talk with the kid sitting on his chest anyway.

"You don't look like a cop."

"I'm having a bad week."

"Drop it!" Delko yells from the doorway, interrupting their wonderfully fun conversation. Tim hopes Delko cleans his gun. Sees the hypocrisy in that, and wants to laugh. 

"No!" 

"Look, we want to help you--" Eric starts to reason. 

Speedle doesn't feel like listening. The knife's not as close to his neck now. He hits his head against the floor three times before the kid and Eric both look at him. 

"What the fu--" The kid starts, rocking back, just enough so that the knife isn't close to Speed's neck anymore.

He takes his chance, swings his left hand and manages to knock the kid off him. He scrambles backwards, away from his attacker and the knife and gets to his feet, pulling his gun too. It should even fire if the need arises this time. Again, chooses not to laugh at the hypocrisy. 

"What the hell…?" Delko gets out too.

Tim looks at him, the teenager sitting on the floor, holding his bleeding nose, and shrugs. "I was getting bored."

Delko moves forward, never really lowering his gun, and pulls the knife back to them with his foot. He frowns. "Are you cut?"

Tim looks at his right arm. Another shirt lost to the perils of crime fighting. He almost laughs, decides it would be a bad idea after what he just pulled, and nods. 

"Great." Eric says, pulling out his cell, keeping his gun pointed at the kid. Who no longer looks like he wants to really fight. He looks close to crying. Tim knows the feeling. "Hey, H. We've ran into a bit of a problem here."

Speedle shags against the wall, realizes he might be contaminating the crime scene, but it's kind of hard to stand up straight. His head is swimming, he thinks more from hitting it than the bleeding, which isn't so bad, but he is loosing blood. It may have something to do with the fact that he hasn't eaten in four days.

For the second time in less than twenty four hours, the only thing that keeps him from completely falling over is Eric reaching out and steadying him. "Speed? You okay, man?"

"Perfect." He snaps. His voice just isn't there. He's not even sure if he really said it out loud.

He can hear Horatio saying something over the cell phone to Eric, who really doesn't look like he's listening. Proves that when he lets the phone drop from his hand. Tim doesn't understand why, just watches it bounce once before coming to rest on the carpet. Realizes gravity's got him too, and that Delko's trying to keep him from falling too hard. 

He's sitting on the floor, knees raised a little -slid down the wall, he thinks he remembers. Eric squatting next to him, one warm hands on his back, the other on his arm. Can't figure out if it's meant to comfort him or keep him from falling over more. Things are getting hard to follow.

"Lean forward." Eric's voice is harsh in his ears, but he does as told, trying very hard to focus on something other than how dizzy he feels. Tries for science --to focus on anything-- to remember why leaning forward is a good idea. Makes blood flow to your brain. That's good. Blood is good...Because...some reason he should know.

'Fuck it,' He thinks, and lets his eyes close. He hears Delko call him Tim, but then it doesn't really matter. 

+++

"...I don't know." Delko's voice sounds agitated. He thinks he should tell him to calm down, but he really can't seem to get his eyes to open. They feel heavy.

Something leaves his throat, he's not sure what, just some pathetic attempt at making a sound. Opens his eyes and wishes he didn't when he sees the ceiling. Hospital. Great. That's what he deserves for passing out. This time, it's definitely a sigh that leaves his mouth. Tries to look around without moving --his headache has seemed to get a hell of a lot worse-- and sees Delko and Horatio standing there, looking at him. Doesn't know what to say. 

"How you feeling?" Horatio asks. Bit of a dumb question, but the question everyone is supposed to ask when someone wakes up after getting their ass kicked.

He sits up, the room spins a little, but not as bad as it was at the scene. "Like crap." He admits, because there's no point in lying. He is laying in a hospital bed.

"You look better with your eyes open, Speed." Eric observes. Tim wonders if he scared him, almost feels bad. 

Speed shrugs, doesn't know what to say to that. Now that he's awake, he wants to leave the hospital. He doesn't like them. It's different when it's work related, he sucks it up and deals, because that's what you do when you're a professional. But this isn't waiting for news on a vic, this is him, and he's sweating just thinking about how much the place scares him. He spent too much time in them after the senior class trip, and now he doesn't want to ever see one again. He's afraid to ask if he's allowed to leave.

"Did that kid kill his father?" He asks, because he thinks it's one of the few questions he doesn't really mind hearing the answer to. 

"No." Eric answers. Horatio just looks at him, it's kind of unnerving. "He's down the hall, he was pretty banged up. He said he was in bed when he heard people come in, not a rare occurrence. He hid in the closet to avoid being anyone's punching bag." He looks sympathetic for the kid. "He said he heard it all, pissed his pants, thinking they were gonna kill him too. He had the knife in the closet. I don't think it's the first time something like this has happened. He thinks he fell asleep, didn't hear the police in the house. Blood tested positive for marijuana. He was probably stoned when he came home." 

"He didn't think you were a cop." Horatio adds. Speedle thinks his appearance is going to be another point in the lecture he knows is still coming. "We're gonna hold him for assaulting an officer."

"Don't." He says it quicker than he thought he would. Both men in the room look at him.

"It's not your call." Horatio says, not exactly angry, but not exactly happy either. Just, indifferent. Like he's ordering a sandwich and not talking about a kid's future.

"The kid was scared out of his mind. The room was dark. I came in and went straight for the closet. What would you do?" 

Horatio looks him in the eyes for a few seconds, then nods. "All right."

His phone rings then. Apparently, Horatio doesn't have to listen to those rules about cell phones in hospitals. He moves to take it outside their little curtained off area, Eric stays behind. Again, he's not entirely comfortable with the look he's getting.

"I left out the part about you banging your head against the floor." He says, quiet. 

He shrugs. "It worked." Is all he can think to say.

"Yeah, just give me a warning next time before you do something stupid like that."

"It worked." He repeats, smiling. 

Eric opens his mouth to say something, there's a smile on his face that makes Speedle feel better --that joking smile, not a worried one-- but he is cut off by a doctor coming in. He doesn't like the look on the guy's face.

+++

Hitting. Things. Bad. 

He keeps repeating it in his head, pacing through the lab, not caring that the walls are glass. Two times in less than a week that he's back at work after getting hurt. This time it's worse. He's not here for work. He could kill the damn doctor for going over his head suggesting this to Horatio. He does not need a fucking shrink. He needs to not be here, with the worst headache of his fucking life, and ten stitches in his arm from a sixteen year old kid, waiting for a damn shrink to 'talk' to him. 

He very much hates his life at this moment, which just gets worse when Calleigh makes her way into the lab. He wants to be alone.

"Heard you had a rough morning." She says, entirely too bright for his taste.

Déjà vu hits. "It's been a rough fuckin' week." He mutters, not sure if she even hears him.

She turns around like she did hear it, looks at him, concerned. "You okay?"

He resists the urge to say 'peachy' and sighs. Opts for humor that's not really funny. "I got my ass kicked by a sixteen year old." 

She gives him a smile, he knows it's probably not amusement, but he takes it as that. Of course it's funny that he got attacked by someone almost half his age. And that for the second time in less than a week, this stupid job almost killed him. Anger rises, at hiself, at the stupid kid, at Horatio, at Calleigh, at everything and nothing at the same time. Really doesn't want to be in the lab at the moment --all the equipment in there is on the expensive side.

"Tell H I'm in the break room when the circus is ready to start."

She looks like she doesn't have any idea what's going on, but he doesn't really care. She'll find out eventually, through the grapevine. He doesn't even care.

Of course, God --or whatever higher power there is, if there even is one at all, sometimes he's not sure about that-- hates him and Delko's sitting in the break room, sipping coffee and reading a newspaper. He wonders if anyone's doing any actual work, with Delko on break and Horatio running around trying to make his life hell. 

Eric looks up at him. "You look pissed."

"I am." He says. 

He sits on the couch, bumps his arm on the armrest and sees stars for a second, muttering a curse.

"Could be worse."

"It's not your arm." He snaps.

"Sam --that's the kid's name-- could have done worse. That's all I'm saying."

'And that makes me so much happier.' He doesn't say it. 

He can't stand the constant surveillance. Even as they lapse into silence, and Eric starts reading the paper again, he's still being watched. He can feel every time Eric glances at him. He keeps his eyes on his lap, almost afraid to look anywhere else. He changed shirts, he learned to always have a spare in his locker, but he feels exposed in the simple white t-shirt. At least it makes the bandage on his arm not seem as bright, he always hates when those things are noticeable. The knuckles on his left hand are starting to bruise. He never thought he'd had that good of a left hook, but he thinks there was a lot of misdirected anger in that punch. Getting himself to care about that is another story all together.

The silence is driving him slowly insane. He turns to look at Delko, deciding talking to someone is much better than the silence.

"Horatio is talking to Dr. Fletcher."

"The psychologist?"

A little surprise would have been nice. "Yeah."

"About you?"

He nods, doesn't say anything.

"Good." He declares, leaning back in his seat, tipping it back but with his hands still on the table. Tim thinks that was how Delko looked in high school --that kid in the back that was always making the teacher nervous thinking he was going to crack his head open. 

"Thanks for the support." He turns back to looking at his hands, the bandage on his arm.

"H should have done that three days ago, man. Right after you got sho--" Eric stops suddenly, like saying it will remind him, and that will cause him to have a breakdown right there on the couch. It might not be that far away.

Tim doesn't say anything, finds a hell of a lot of interest in the few splotches of blood on his jeans. For all he knows, it could be ketchup. He's never been one to do his laundry that often. 

"Could have prevented last night." Eric adds, taking his silence for agreement.

"I'm sorry about that." He says it low, but loud enough for the other man to hear. He's not ashamed to say he's sorry, he's not one of those people, but he feels stupid for the whole thing. His brow knits with curiosity, a new thought popping into his mind. 

"Why did you page me?"

"I couldn't find..." Eric looks confused. "Something. I forget what."

"Ah. Wasn't my finest hour."

"No, but at least you didn't puke on me. I've had friends do that."

He's never been the one to have friends that would drink like that. Or call him if they needed help. He thinks Delko had a lot of them. Probably still has a few now. He doesn't know what to say. 

"Relax." Delko advises, getting up from the table and sitting on the other end of the couch. "What is so bad about talking to a psychologist?"

Everything. "It's not the point." 

"Then what's the point?"

He shrugs, knows that it's the fact that he doesn't want to need to talk to someone. "I don't know."

Eric looks at him, really looks at him, like he did standing at the door the night before. He doesn't like it. "I think it's a good idea." He says at least.

"You said that already."

"It deserves repeating." He clears his throat, seems to find the newspaper that's still in his hands interesting. "I'm worried." Small voice, like saying it too loud is a bad thing.

For a few seconds he can't say anything. Feels a lump in the back of his throat, cant remember the last time that happened, not even on Despo-Day and the days since did that happen. "Don't be." He says it to say something. 

Eric goes from concerned to angry in a second. "Fuck you!" He snaps, shooting to his feet. 

Speedle looks up at him, confused. "What?" His voice is barely there.

"'Don't be.' I have every right to be, any rational decent human being would be." Eric's waving the folded up paper around, as he gestures. 

"I didn't mean it like that." Hands out, trying to calm his friend. He is a friend, not just a coworker. Realizes it now more that ever. 

Delko sinks back down to the couch, like a deflated balloon. He leans forwards, elbows resting on his knees. The paper falls out of his hands, floats to the floor. "I know..." He clears his throat, looks back at him. "I know you don't want me to worry, because that makes you all uncomfortable, or whatever, but Jesus Christ Speed..."

"I'm sorry." He says when it looks like Eric isn't going to say more. 

"Don't be sorry, fix it."

He snaps his fingers once, ignoring the small flare of pain from his arm. "There. Fixed." Gives a little grin because it is meant to be funny. Because the air in the room is heavy, the muscles in his back and neck are tense, and he's just tired of Delko looking at him the way he has been since last night. Maybe before that, if he had cared to notice.

Eric gives him a little shove, smiling for a second before going back to serious. "Seriously, Speed, talk to the woman. It won't hurt."

Yes, it really will. But he nods anyway, because he thinks it may be the only comfort he can offer Delko. 

They sit in silence for a while, until Speedle realizes he's a hell of a lot calmer now then he was when he walked into the break room. Not fully calm --the idea of talking to Dr. Fletcher scares him more than he cares to admit, even to himself. His palms are sweaty, he notices, whipping them on his jeans --atempting to make it look smooth and not nervous.

Horatio interrupts his brooding. Leaning into the open door to the break room and simply saying, "Speed." Before disappearing out of it again.

He can't stop the groan that leaves his mouth. Eric laughs, pats him on the back. "It can't be that bad."

So says the man who didn't cause someone's death. He just smiles in return, a definitely fake, nervous smile that's more a grimace than a smile, and stands up.

'Time to face the music.'

+++

Dr. Fletcher's office is done in muted tones. A place for traumatized cops to come talk about their problems. He very much doesn't want to be sitting on this couch. His eyes feel dry, itchy, but he refuses to rub them, to do anything to show how fucking uncomfortable he is. His stomach is a ball of knots, as he looks at the woman who can't be much older than him, who, any other day he'd consider good looking --any other day that he wasn't forced to sit on her couch and not look like he's upset. Today, she looks like Satan.

She doesn't say anything, just sits in her chair, looking at him, clip board balanced on her lap. Pen ready to write down his every thought, all the ones that aren't considered sane. He thinks it's a staring contest, looks back, feels like twenty minutes have passed. She's got a clock that ticks on her desk, the only thing to break the silence. There's a small plaque on it, but at this distance, he really can't see what it says. Probably 'World's Best Shrink!' or something equally generic.

"I know you're not here by your own choice, but it would be good for you to talk to me, Tim."

He winces at the use of his first name. "I don't have anything to say. Other than this is pointless."

"Your superior was concerned enough to convince me come in on a Saturday."

Doesn't surprise him that Horatio would do that. It's almost comforting. "I didn't tell him he needed to."

She sighs, waits a few seconds like she thinks he'll say something more, but when it's apparent that he's not planning on it, she talks. "We can do this two ways. One, you talk to me and by looking at you, I can tell that you're obviously upset about something. Not to mention the information Lieutenant Caine gave me. It seems you have a lot to talk about."

He shrugs, finds the small coffee table rather interesting. "What's the other way?"

"I suggest to your superior that you are suspended from duty until I find it fit for you to carry a badge and a gun."

"I'm a CSI, I don't really use my gun all that much." Goes for that and not the fact that he was just threatened.

"Except for this Wednesday." She says, looking at a piece of paper she had under the legal pad. 

He can't stop the shudder that runs through his body at the mention of Dispo-Day. Frowns deeper than he has been through their conversation. "I didn't expect that."

"From what I've been told, it was an ambush. No one expected it." Looks down at the paper again. "I was told you were shot during the gun battle?"

"Yeah, the Kevlar caught it."

"Your gun misfired?"

This is like pulling teeth, except more excruciating because he's not medicated --at least no more then those two pills he took at the hospital, more to keep Delko happy than anything. And they're not really helping in this situation. "Yeah." Doesn't want to say why. Hopes that she doesn't ask why.

"Because it wasn't cleaned properly?"

He nods, feels his hands go numb. "I didn't clean it at all."

"Why not?"

"I didn't expect to use it." She doesn't say anything back, so he sighs, and keeps talking. "I don't like guns." 

She looks up from the paper at that, knows it's the first thing he's given her that she didn't have to fight for, and he can mentally see her latching on to it. "Why not?"

"I'm a scientist, not a cop. I mean, I've been trained to use one, but I really don't like them. I don't like firing them, I don't like carrying it, and I really, really don't like being shot at."

"No one really likes those things."

'Calleigh likes firing them.' Doesn't say it because doesn't feel like discussing that at the moment. She'll tell him the reason he thought that was some secret Freudian thing he has for his mother or some bull shit like that. 

"See, I'm sane. Can I go?" 

"It's not that easy." She almost looks apologetic, then her face hardens. She leans forward, the look of someone that has important things to say comes over her. "You don't want to be here, I understand that. I'm pretty much used to people not wanting to talk to me, so don't think you're hurting my feelings. You're hear because a doctor told your boss that the possible reason you passed out today was because you haven't had food in four days --which you admitted to the doctor, and that's a step in the right direction. Looking at you I can tell you haven't been sleeping that much. Certainly not enough. Now, we can sit here, and you can joke, or frown, or sigh, or do all three at once, but you're not leaving until I'm at least semi-confident that you're not going to hurt yourself."

"I wouldn't hurt myself." He says that because it's the only thing he can really disagree with.

"Not eating is hurting yourself. Going to a crime scene when you haven't slept or eaten could potentially hurt yourself --like it did this morning."

"That was a freak thing." He protests. "The scenes are usually clear. It was a cop that screwed up, not me."

"What if, you went to bring someone in for questioning --that is part of your job right?"

He nods.

"So, you go after this guy, a real lowlife type of guy, and he's waiting with a gun. And you're too slow to react because you haven't eaten, and you're so tired you can't even think straight. You'll get shot. Or one of your coworkers."

He just nods. Doesn't know what to say, really. She's right, he knows that, maybe has known that all along. 

"Tell me about Wednesday."

And he does. Everything. How scared he was. How he said he was fine to work because his whole body had become numb and his chest honestly didn't hurt by the time they found the truck. How that night he went home and sat in the bath tub for two hours, trying to get some of the stiffness in his muscles to ease. The nightmare he had that night and the night after. Wanting to run --not explaining his past because that's just too much to talk about. Taking the day off because he didn't want to see his coworkers --friends-- after what he did. Getting ridiculously drunk, pushing off Delko who helped him out the next day without complaint…Everything including his conversation with Delko in the break room. 

When he's done, he's tired, his throat is dry. There's a coffee mug filled with water in front of him. He didn't notice her getting up and getting it for him at some point. He sips from it and leans back on the couch, feeling a little lighter. Not better --better is far away. But he can breathe.

"See, it wasn't so bad." She says, smiling at him. "Now, of course, you have to learn how to deal with everything that's happened."

He just nods. Looks at his watch, realizes it's close to the end of the shift. How long had he been sitting there? Hours?

She smiles again. "I want you to call me on Monday and make an appointment for sometime next week."

"Want or order me to?"

"Both."

He nods, accepts that. "Okay."

"I will go down to the lab if I have to." She threatens it, but there's a smile in her voice that wasn't there before when he was threatening him.

"I promise."

"Good." 

He goes to the door, stops before leaving, he looks out the window, stairs at the darkened sky. "Uh, there might be a few other things I'd like to talk about. Is that okay?"

She gives him a genuine, full fledged smile this time. "Of course."

"Good." He says, and leaves the room feeling a hell of a lot lighter than he did going in. 

+++

The end. Thanks for reading.


End file.
